


The Chances We Didn't Take

by RileyC



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M, M/M, Post Episode: s2 Keep Your Friends Close, Unrequited Love, could be pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos listens to D'Artagnan pour out his romantic woes, while keeping his own to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chances We Didn't Take

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Keep Your Friends Close." 
> 
> The poem Athos quotes from is "Love is a sickness...," by Samuel Daniel, 1562 - 1619.

With Aramis left in Porthos’ care, and cautioned to keep his wits about him and not let secrets slip, Athos had looked forward to a quiet night. There was much to think about, now Rochefort was in their midst. While he was disinclined to think they could trust him, the degree to which they should examine every word and action for signs of treachery remained elusive. Athos had met Rochefort in passing years ago, during a rare visit to Court, and formed no impression except that Rochefort appeared a typical courtier. That Rochefort had progressed beyond that was evident. Whether that was to the good of France…? That, among many things, remained to be seen.

As he turned the corner that led to his lodgings, however, he swiftly perceived that further contemplation of these matters would have to be postponed for a time. D’Artagnan awaited him, seated on the steps that led up to his room, and there was something in his aspect that inclined Athos to believe this would not be a brief interview.

Still, on the off chance the younger man was here only on an errand, Athos asked, “Is there a message from Treville?”

“No.” On his feet now, D’Artagnan came down the steps to meet him. “It’s personal.”

“Tell me it’s not about romance.”

D’Artagnan gave him a contrite look. “I can’t do that.”

“No, of course not,” Athos said on a weary sigh. “Very well.” Athos waved him back up the stairs. “Come up,” he said and waited for his protégé to precede him.

D’Artagnan glanced around the Spartan quarters without comment as Athos stripped off his gloves and unbuckled his weapons to set them atop a trunk and lit some candles. If a look of disappointment crossed D’Artagnan’s face at the empty bottles that littered the floor, Athos chose to ignore it. There were fewer bottles than before and it was enough that Athos knew this.

“Well, then, what burdens do you bear today?” Athos sat on the bed and waved his hand for D’Artagnan to follow suit. That D’Artagnan first shed _his_ weapons and laid them next to Athos’ indicated this matter, whatever it was, would not be quickly dealt with and dismissed, and Athos saw his evening slipping further away.

D’Artagnan sat beside him and gave him a curious look. “Has someone else sought your counsel?”

Athos shook his head and waved it away. Though he feared that the secrets Aramis carried would come to light, it would not be because Athos broke that confidence, not even to Porthos or D’Artagnan—although heaven knew the boy could keep a secret.

“It’s of no matter at the moment. Tell me what’s brought you here.” 

Hunched forward, hand clasped before him like a penitent, some few seconds passed as D’Artagnan gathered his thoughts and formed them into words. Clearly a matter of great import, then, and Athos’ suspicions were confirmed when D’Artagnan finally spoke. “It’s Constance—Madame Bonacieux. She… I…” He hunched forward a bit more and breathed out a despondent sigh. “I’ve made a mess of everything, Athos. I spoke hastily and without thought and I think she may never forgive me.” He spoke this in a rush and, barely stopping to draw breath, poured out the rest of a story that did seem to confirm this appraisal and his subsequent fears.

That he recounted his most recent encounter with Constance in a precise detail that made no attempt to excuse his actions or paint himself in any kind of favorable light might, Athos allowed, be counted in his favor. That Constance had not seized the nearest weapon to hand and either bashed him over the head or skewered him struck Athos as even more significant.

“You don’t want to hear it,” Athos touched his shoulder, “but Madame Bonacieux was correct on every point.”

As subdued as Athos had ever seen him, D’Artagnan said, “I know.”

“That you accused her of cowardice is nearly unforgiveable.” Had Anne faced those choices? To lie, steal, and even kill—or starve on the street? Sunk in his shame and grief, he had spared little thought for the realities of her life before he knew her. Since learning she still lived, he had thought on it often and arrived at no easy answers. 

Head lowered even more, D’Artagnan said, “I know. I would take it back if I could.” He sat up then and looked at Athos with a sad and rueful smile of shared understanding. “If only words could be enough.”

Athos nodded, patted his shoulder. “Your situation may be salvageable.”

“Maybe.” D’Artagnan pulled a face, preparatory to a further confession. “When I saw her earlier, at the palace, she asked me to leave her alone.” He looked at Athos again. “You’re going to tell me to honor her wishes.”

“Why seek my guidance when you already know the answers?” Athos wasn’t entirely being humorous.

D’Artagnan released a deep, pent up breath, and scooted back to rest against the wall. Speculation in his voice, he mused, “Misfortune could befall Bonacieux.”

Athos turned to face him, nodded. “It could. And were there indications of murder, and if gossip supplied motive and hinted of conspiracy, you might hang—and Constance with you.” He did not for a moment believe that D’Artagnan would stoop to sordid murder but it pleased him to see the younger man absorb that knowledge and grow somber with it.

“Am I to forget her?”

“Perhaps.” 

“I love her.” D’Artagnan spoke the words as if they had the power to make everything right. As they had once left his own lips in a similar fashion, Athos could not offer any criticism.

Athos nodded, murmured, “And it is agony and ecstasy mingled together.”

“There should be instructions to warn you off it,” D’Artagnan said, more disheartened than bitter. 

Athos lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile and pointed at a small stack of dusty books on a rickety table. “Poets have extolled its pleasures and its hazards at great length. ‘Love is a torment of the mind, a tempest everlasting…’”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Cheerful. The great minds should turn their attention to finding out why love is so awful.”

Athos’ smile was more pronounced. “I fear it may be an eternal unknowable eluding even the Leonardo’s and Galileo’s.”

D’Artagnan gave him an interested look and scooted a bit closer. “If you had known the outcome, would you still have loved Milady?”

Athos shook his head, not in dismissal or denial, but because this was a matter he had considered many times, never with an answer to show. Out of habit he reached for the locket, only belatedly recalling it had been discarded, and gave D’Artagnan the only answer he had ever found. “I don’t know.”

D’Artagnan held his gaze. “Would you love again?”

_That_ answer had shown itself with perfect clarity—nor was it the Comtesse de Larroque who had awakened him to new possibilities. No, he had been susceptible to Ninon because another had stirred him with bright smiles and a tenacious, passionate spirit that could not long be subdued. Porthos and Aramis had warmed his heart and breathed life into him first, and then D’Artagnan had barged in to strike a spark… But it could never be. 

Were he another, different man, Athos might have seized upon this sad state of affairs to try and turn them to his own advantage. He might even succeed, he thought as D’Artagnan sent him a warm look and smile. Athos would never do this, though. D’Artagnan deserved better. Whether that was Madame Bonacieux might yet be in doubt, but there was no chance of it ever being him.

“I have done with love,” he said, and with conviction. 

“You can’t know that. The Comtesse de Larroque--”

“Is gone. And there is no reason to believe the Cardinal, before he passed, rescinded the promise that she would die if she ever returned to Paris.”

If D’Artagnan felt inclined to dispute with him on that, the young man held his tongue—for now. Instead he merely said, “There are others. I know you couldn’t think of marriage, but--”

Athos held up a hand to quiet him. “Do not think of playing matchmaker, D’Artagnan. It would be wasted on me.”

A bit petulant now, D’Artagnan kicked his heels against the side of the bed. “Someone should be happy.”

“Perhaps you will be. Give Constance time.”

Hair falling into his eyes, D’Artagnan pulled a rueful face. “Years?”

Athos acknowledged that with a slight inclination of his head. “And as you say, there are others. Lucie de Foix seems taken with you.”

“If you don’t count her smacking me in the face.” He screwed up his face as if doing battle and blurted, “She kissed me. I kissed her. We—It…” He sighed and drooped once more. “It didn’t mean anything,” he confessed more quietly, “but I think Constance may have seen it."

Athos rolled his eyes. Apparently the youngster had skipped over one or two details after all. “Has Aramis been giving you romantic advice?”

“No! It wasn’t like that. It was…” Another sigh, another baffled shake of the head. “Am I an idiot?”

Athos smiled, patted his arm. “No more than any of us. That women put up with us at all is another of life’s great mysteries, I think.” As the hour was growing late and it would be best if D’Artagnan were on his way, Athos got to his feet. “Honor Constance’s wishes. If she asks that you stay away, do not find excuses to put yourself in her path. As it is inevitable that you will encounter her, use those moments not to woo her but to read in how she looks at you, in what she says and does, to try and determine how she feels about you.”

“Leave it for her to decide,” D’Artagnan murmured, thoughtful as he stood up and faced Athos.

“You only risk your heart.” Athos tapped him on the chest. “She risks her life.”

Solemn with that knowledge, D’Artagnan nodded and reached for his weapons. “I still wish you would find it in you to risk your heart. Someone could love you, Athos.”

In the flickering candlelight, as D’Artagnan looked at him, there was a moment when Athos thought he saw a glimmer of something to give him hope. But no, he was mistaken. Best to shut that door and lock it once and for all. “See to your own affairs, D’Artagnan,” he said, not unkindly. “I am content with mine.”

And if D’Artagnan was not satisfied with that answer he did seem to realize that it was best to let it be. “Thank you for listening to me,” he said as he went to the door. “I hope I didn’t keep you from anything.”

Athos followed him, stood at the head of the steps as D’Artagnan started down. “Nothing of import.”

“Well…” D’Artagnan looked up at him. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” Athos waited until he was lost to sight, then went inside, closed the door, and picked up a half-empty bottle of wine.

As he sat on the bed, back to the wall, and gazed at the candle as its light flickered in a draft, his thoughts did not drift to Rochefort and potential machinations, though. Instead it was a pair of dark eyes, almost obscured by a fall of hair, that claimed his thoughts and teased him to chance his once-shattered heart again.

He was a long time falling asleep, and not nearly drunk enough to guarantee that dreams would not come to taunt him.

_In the end, we only regret the chances we didn't take, relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make. - Unknown_


End file.
